


How to Succeed in Business Even If You're Cursed

by Darkrivertempest



Series: Dramione Duet Stories [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Cursed objects, F/M, Mild Horror, Mild Language, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the best revenge is living well. Borgin thinks otherwise, and ensures Malfoy pays for his family's part in the decline of business, but Draco has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Succeed in Business Even If You're Cursed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cryptaknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptaknight/gifts).



> Written for Cryptaknight at the 2014 Dramione_duet community on LJ. Her prompt is at the end of the story.
> 
> Credit goes to _This Mortal Coil_ for the lyrics to their version of _Song to the Sirens_. Massive thanks to my beta, D - woman, you always keep me from two steps away from disaster.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Edward Borgin, formerly of the infamous (and much maligned) shop Borgin & Burkes, had finally had the decency to ‘hop the twig’ and come to a very sticky end.

Although age had been a factor (he was at least 147), it had been rumoured that the shop owner perished by way of one of his many cursed acquisitions, the last known ‘purchase’ being a vast wooden crate that fairly oozed malevolent energy. Many speculated that upon opening the box, Borgin had simply melted onto the floorboards, practically vaporised from the strength of the contents. The witches and wizards of Diagon Alley had been heard to give a collective sigh of relief at the shop owner’s demise, assuming that the shop would be closed in the absence of a designated successor. After all, Caractacus Burke hadn’t been seen since 1988, and those savvy about the acquisition business held the belief that he’d become part of the shop’s collection of oddities when he and Borgin had had one argument too many. But when a week went by with only a ‘Closed for Lunch’ sign in the front window, the local business folks became nervous concerning the fate of the Dark establishment. 

That is, until Vincent Slaymaker, solicitor, arrived with a plethora of documents and proceeded to execute the Will of Edward Borgin, changing the fate of many… for better and worse.

* * *

If Draco Malfoy thought his life couldn’t become any stranger than it had in the intervening year between the end of the war and the present day, he had another think coming.

In the scant fourteen months that had passed, Lucius had never truly recovered from his abuse at the Dark Lord’s hands. Narcissa had done all that she could, magically and otherwise, but when the spirit was broken, the will was weak. It had been a disguised blessing when his father finally passed, looking serene for the first time in Draco’s memory. 

His mother had been more pragmatic. A great many of the Malfoy assets had been liquidated to pay reparations to victims of the war and Ministry legal fees. While they did manage to retain ownership of Malfoy Manor, Draco and Narcissa were only a few missteps away from becoming part of the middle class, an intolerable state for Narcissa. So, after Lucius’ death, she remarried a pure-blood wizard with ties to French nobility and went to live on the continent in the luxury she’d become accustomed to.

Draco remained in Wiltshire, and while he wished his mother the happiness she had lacked in the past two decades, he never regretted being a Malfoy, even now when the name was, for some people, synonymous with ‘kisser of evil arse’. Especially then, because to his way of thinking, it was still better than being poor or, Merlin forbid, a Muggle-lover. Granted, his views on Muggle-borns had changed somewhat, but it didn’t mean he wanted to have high tea with the Muggle Queen. 

It was a pre-dawn noise that heralded change for Draco, an incessant tapping increasing in intensity. It couldn’t possibly be knocking, for his father was quite dead and his mother was enjoying her newfound life. And seeing as they were the only beings that had concerned themselves with Draco’s welfare in the past, he was caught between curiosity at who the visitor might be (not to mention why they felt authorized to intrude at such a wretched hour) and not a little fear that the Ministry had finally found some grounds on which to throw him into Azkaban and lose the key to his cell. 

A loud caw sounded. Then, more tapping. Draco pried open one eye and glared at the black shadows behind the diaphanous curtains that graced the doors to his bedroom. He frowned. The Ministry sent owls, and no self-respecting owl would make such a sound. In fact most wizards and witches had owls, owing to the fact that crows and ravens were prone to mischief and not the most reliable of message bearers. So whoever had sent the persistent creature (it was tapping so hard now that the glass started to crack) truly wanted his attention.

Draco threw back the duvet, got out of bed, made his way to the door and opened it. The raven promptly dropped a rolled parchment from its claw onto the plush carpet and then took off in a flurry of black feathers.

“Dozy bird,” Draco muttered as he bent to retrieve the missive.

The moment he closed his fingers around the parchment, however, he realized his mistake, and his swearing was lost in the _pop_ of being Portkeyed to locations unknown.

* * *

As it turned out, the location was familiar… hauntingly so. While he had no clue as to his ‘host’, the sight of his destination sent a wave of dread through Draco. Borgin & Burkes was not a friendly place, even for pure-bloods, and especially not for him. He didn’t think Borgin had ever forgiven him for the decline in business when Draco had revealed where the Vanishing Cabinet resided. 

“Ah, Mr Malfoy, how good of you to join us.”

Draco turned sharply and stared at the thin wizard sitting behind an antique desk. “Who’re you?”

A wry smile accompanied the wizard as he stood. “Vincent Slaymaker, solicitor.” He indicated the two women seated before him. “Cecilia Borgin and Octavia Burke.” There was a third chair situated between the two witches. “Please, take a seat and we’ll begin.”

Draco remained where he was. “Why did you bring me here?” he demanded, glancing around the deserted shop. 

Slaymaker tilted his head. “For the reading of Edward Borgin’s Will, of course.” He seated himself and began sifting through several leaves of parchment. 

“Oh, he’s dishy!” cooed the witch to Draco’s right—Octavia Burke, according to Slaymaker. Heavy make-up accentuated her advanced age, and her purple and red hair was sculpted into bizarre, obscene shapes. Her gaze roamed Draco’s body and he felt oddly violated. “Oh, yes. He’ll do quite nicely.”

Cecilia Borgin harrumphed. “Ha! Not enough meat on his bones if you ask me. He’ll be dead within a fortnight, guaranteed.” Though much younger than Octavia, Cecilia fared no better in her oddity. This was confirmed when she turned to Slaymaker and actually bared her fangs at him. “When he’s gone, I want what’s rightfully mine!”

Draco tried to swallow down his panic, but knew he’d failed when he heard the tremor in his voice. “I had no business with Edward Borgin,” he said to Slaymaker. “I’m not sure why I’m here. There must be some sort of mistake.”

All three stared at Draco in angry disbelief. If Draco hadn’t already been chilled (he was clad only in his silk pyjamas and barefoot, after all) their nasty glares would’ve been enough to freeze him solid. 

Slaymaker removed his wand from his pocket and pointed it at Draco, his lips curling into a sneer. Without his own wand, Draco was forced to take a seat. “Now that we’re all here…”

“I’m not—” Draco’s mouth was suddenly sealed shut, as if he’d eaten an Ever-Lasting Toffee. He tried to raise his hands, but his limbs were heavy and his body refused to move.

“He’d be a lovely addition to my waxworks exhibit,” Octavia mused. She licked her palm and patted down a wayward lock of Draco’s hair. “I’ve wanted to expand my interpretation of _Otiose Explanations in the Face of Death_ works, and he’d be perfect.”

Draco’s eyes widened. 

Cecilia snorted. “The only ‘otiose explanation’ I’m interested in is why anyone would bother to invest in your descent into insanity.” 

Octavia gave her a blasé smile and waved her hand. “What can I say? I’m an artist. I think deep thoughts in between the erotica and Nogtail grunting noises.”

The other three occupants of the room stared at her uneasily, then Slaymaker cleared his throat. “As I was saying…On to business, shall we?” 

Draco had no choice in the matter as his backside was now stuck to the chair, his mouth was sealed shut and his limbs felt like dead weights. He just hoped that the two harpies on either side would be unable to remove him from the premises; he had a feeling that if they could manage it, that would be the last anyone ever saw of Draco Malfoy.

Having nothing else to do (and obviously having no say in the matter), Draco tuned out the droning of Slaymaker’s voice as he described the contents of Borgin’s Will and to whom various bequests were to be issued. There would certainly be nothing of interest for Draco—the few interactions he’d had with Borgin over the years had been limited to purchase of a few items of antiquity, some relics from the Black family, and the…

The Vanishing cabinet—the pair of them. Well, only the one, now, which Draco could see shoved into a dusty corner of the shop. The one he’d repaired in his last year at Hogwarts had been destroyed along with the Room of Requirement. He’d only known of those two, though rumour held that there had been many more in the past. What would happen if he stepped inside? Would he be trapped in Limbo, or flung to unknown regions only to end up in some forgotten cabinet in Timbuktu?

His eyes drifted over the expanse of the shop, noting that not much had changed since he’d last darkened its doorstep. There was the spiral staircase off to the right of the massive apothecary hutch, the steps leading to the upper level where the more lethal items were tucked away—such as the cursed necklace he’d given to Katie Bell. On second thought, perhaps he’d done more business with Borgin that he’d remembered, or tried to forget. 

Startled, he felt his body relax and his lips finally loosen, though there was a vaguely tacky feel to them. 

“And that concludes our business,” Slaymaker said, snapping his briefcase shut to finalize the point as the two women rose to their feet. 

“Wait, what?” Draco hadn’t heard anything Slaymaker had said beyond the incomprehensible legal jargon.

The flurry of activity ceased as all three of them turned to look at him in confusion.

“I believe I was quite clear on the stipulations of Mr Borgin’s Will, Mr Malfoy,” Slaymaker intoned impatiently. 

“Be a little clearer,” Draco snapped. He rose and advanced on the shifty solicitor, but Cecilia placed a hand on his chest.

“You could always give the shop to me,” she purred, her eye-colour shifting hypnotically. “You’re young; you still have a few years left.”

Her request garnered a forced cough from Slaymaker. “Need I remind you of the parameters of your uncle’s will, Miss Borgin?”

Cecilia’s face screwed up into a rictus of feral aggression. “A fortnight!” she hissed. “That’s all you’ll have!” she growled and turned to leave, her masses of petticoats and skirts swirling in her wake. The door rattled as she slammed it behind her, the movement so violent it unhinged the coiled shopkeeper’s bell and it fell to the wooden floor with a muted clang.

Draco felt a hand patting his shoulder and saw that it was Octavia. “She’s a little…anxious,” she said soothingly.

“About what?”

Octavia smirked. “You’ll figure it out.” She gave him a wink and made for the door herself, then paused. “Are you sure you don’t want to be part of my exhibit? There’s hot wax involved.”

Did she honestly think that would be a motivation? “Let me think on it,” he said evasively. “In the meantime, I could always contribute monetary support—”

“You might wish to check your books before you issue such a statement, Mr Malfoy,” Slaymaker interrupted. “After all, you’ve not even had a day of business.” He tsked. “Best get yourself a financial advisor.”

Draco was utterly confused. What the bloody hell were they all talking about? He wanted to kick himself thrice over for failing to pay attention. 

Slaymaker shrugged on his cloak, produced Draco’s wand from his pocket and handed it to him. “You’ll be needing this. Use it sparingly.” He gaze swept the whole of the shop. “I honestly have no idea how some of these items will respond to errant spells.” He donned a floppy fedora, nodded at Draco, and then he too exited the shop.

Words wanted to pour from Draco’s mouth about how surreal the whole morning had been, but they were stuck in his throat. Why had he been kidnapped at half-past four in the morning and dropped into this hellish nightmare?

The off-tune gong of a grandfather clock startled him from his thoughts. The gears groaned and the chime was, at first, too high pitched and then horribly flat. It sounded eight times. He’d been stuck here for almost four hours? He got up and went to the front of the shop to peer through the grime-covered glass of one of the windows, seeing a few wizards and witches skulking about Knockturn Alley. The sunlight was muted, indicating it would be an overcast day. 

How auspicious.

* * *

“You might want to swish instead of flick with this one.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at her instructor. “But the book says—”

“I know what the book says, what all the books say,” Bill Weasley said, exasperated. “But I’m talking from experience. You really, _really_ don’t want to snap your wrist on the upstroke when dealing with a water-based curse.” 

She narrowed her eyes but turned back to her current problem: an enormous water tank with a jagged rock rising in the middle, water surrounding the entirety of the rugged formation. Upon the peak of the rock sat a chest of jewels, waiting to be snatched. There was only one problem.

_Sail to me, sail to me, let me enfold you..._

Bloody Sirens—three of them, singing in harmony, to be exact.

_Here I am, here I am waiting to hold you..._

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to block her ears from their ethereal sound. It didn’t matter that they were female; Siren song affected each person differently. Some went mad upon hearing the first note. Others—the more strong-willed, the longer it took—were either pulled beneath the surface of the water (a mercifully quick fate), or devoured slowly while a smile still lingered upon the victim’s lips. 

_Swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you..._

Delicate arms with graceful fingers implored Hermione to join them in watery bliss. She blew out a shaky breath, trying to recall the spell that would stop their music, but why she would ever want the lullaby to stop? It was so beautiful...

“Granger!”

A strong arm grabbed her round the waist and jerked her away from the edge of the tank, and she realized her upper body was completely soaked. She was unceremoniously dropped on her backside ten yards away from the tank, desperately covering her ears to block out the hisses and high-pitched screeches of outraged Sirens deprived of their midday snack. When the commotion had failed to cease, Bill ushered Hermione out of the chamber and sealed the door with a protective spell.

With a strand of seaweed dangling in her face, Hermione dared a sheepish glance at her instructor.

Bill gave her a wry look, shaking his head. “I’ll give you this: you lasted longer than any other apprentice.” He plucked the seaweed from her head. 

She grimaced. “Dare I ask what happened to the others?”

“Best not.” He crossed his arms and studied her. “What’s the first thing you should’ve done?”

Hermione parted her foul-smelling hair into two clumps and tucked them behind her ears. “The book says you should—”

His scowl caused her answer to die in her throat. “Any curse-breaking text or manual should only be seen as a guideline, not an absolute. If I relied solely on every manuscript I’ve ever read about curse-breaking, I would’ve been eaten by a _Ya-te-veo_ plant in Khartoum on my third mission.” He sighed heavily. “The first thing you should’ve done is deaden your hearing, to avoid the lure of the Siren’s song. Then you could’ve dismantled the other curses at your leisure.” He aimed his wand at her and muttered, “ _Exaresco_ ”

“No!”

But it was too late. 

Hermione seethed as she watched Bill Weasley try to contain his laughter at what his Drying Spell had done to her hair. She didn’t think he was trying hard enough.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

She held up a hand to stop his sorry attempt at an apology. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

He fumbled at his pocket and withdrew a watch. “Oh my, look at the time. Hour for lunch? How about two?” Before she could answer either question, he continued. “How about you take the rest of the day off, hmm? I’m sure you’ll need to get…” He gestured vaguely at her head. “That taken care of, right?” Noticing the look on her face he flinched and backed away slowly. “We’ll resume tomorrow at nine.” 

Hermione watched as he retreated as quickly as he was able without looking where he was going. Fleur really needed to exert more power in her wifely persuasion and sharpen his grovelling skills.

When the training room was finally empty, Hermione filled it with a frustrated groan. In the six months since she’d begun her curse-breaker apprenticeship with Bill Weasley, she’d been hexed, jinxed, battered, bruised, and in one case had her pinkie toe nibbled on by a Grindylow. Her toenail had never grown back correctly. She idly wondered if Harry was having similar issues with his Auror training, or if Ron was constantly being bludgeoned by Quaffles during his training with the Chudley Cannons. 

Hermione knew she’d surprised both her friends when she expressed an interest in curse-breaking. Ron had tried to dissuade her at every opportunity… until six months ago when he was accepted as the Cannons’ spare Keeper, at which point he didn’t seem to care what she did as long as she wrote to him while he was away. She’d tried to comply, but her last two letters had been returned by a very perturbed owl, unopened. When she’d asked Harry if he’d heard from Ron, Harry had simply shook his head and said that Molly was always in contact with her youngest son, and that Ron would no doubt remember them when it was convenient. 

Lovely. 

So, Hermione stopped—stopped writing letters, stopped wondering if Ron had taken up with a Quidditch groupie, stopped dithering about what type of career she wanted. When the posting for apprentice curse-breaker appeared at the Ministry (it varied between six and eight months, depending on how quickly the candidate failed, usually in some spectacular manner), Harry had let her know and she’d applied immediately. She’d never looked back and never regretted her decision.

Well, most days she never regretted her decision. She turned her head and grimaced at a sound like extremely dry straw shifting around her face. Carefully, she felt her hair to see just how bad it was. Her nose wrinkled; based on the evidence of her fingers, she looked like a Pomeranian that had just been zapped.

Wanting to see how bad the damage might be, she searched the chamber for a mirror, knowing that she’d have to be cautious when looking into it since most of them were recently cursed objects. She finally spied a cloth draped over something in a corner, the dimensions suggesting those of a full-body looking glass. After a quick investigatory wand-waving detected nothing too dire surrounding the object, she slowly pulled the drape away.

Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t a mirror.

Though the wood was charred and the hinges warped, it was unmistakably the Vanishing Cabinet that had once been in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. Her hair forgotten, she edged one door open with the tip of her wand. It creaked horribly, and she feared the door would fall right off its hinge pin. She didn’t think anything could more astonish her than finding the cabinet here, still in existence, but she was quite wrong.

Inside the cabinet, on the blackened floorboards, was a tattered piece of parchment with writing on it.

* * *

Five days.

Five bloody, infuriating, frustrating, desperate days. 

That’s how long Draco had been trapped in the shop.

That first day, he’d tried to follow Slaymaker out into Knockturn Alley, but some invisible barrier prevented him from stepping past the stoop. He could open the door, even shout at wizards and witches passing by. He startled more than a few, and they scurried off lest they be enticed to enter. Idiots, the lot of them. But he could go no further.

He then tried the back entrance, the one that abutted a dodgy pub called _The Gagging Gannet_. But once again, he only got as far as the first step before he hit a barrier, preventing him from even moving down to the cobblestone road.

After screaming several epithets, Draco slammed the door shut and began searching for any windows that might open. The ones at the front and back of the shop were no use, with a cast iron frame and slightly warped panes of glass securely fitted into the header and sill, not to mention the nasty hex embedded in the window itself. Draco only discovered the hex when the spell he cast to break the glass rebounded and broke his nose. The _Episkey_ he applied afterwards helped his sinuses, but not his mood.

He didn’t want to go up to the first floor, but he had little choice if he wanted to escape. Disappointingly, the two smaller windows in the cramped space proved to be modelled after the ones on the lower level, so Draco didn’t bother trying a spell that might ricochet and vaporise everything. He quickly descended, feeling the insidious energy of the shop sucking at him. 

The next eight hours were the most exhausting and dispiriting Draco had ever experienced. He scoured the shop from third floor to basement, trying every spell he knew (and some he had to guess at), searching for a crack or crevice he could exploit to escape. When he finally gave up, he was decidedly tired and hungry. Stomach growling and head aching, he cast a _Tepescere_ to warm his body and curled up in a corner near the main entrance, hoping this was all just a bad dream.

When he awoke the next morning, the nightmare had not faded. In fact, it looked worse. Much, much worse. 

He hadn’t bothered lighting any of the numerous dusty, half-melted candles as he’d made his way around the shop last evening; the watery light from outside had served his purpose for as long as he’d needed. And when he’d wedged himself into a relatively secure corner underneath the till counter to sleep, he hadn’t really observed his surroundings. He regretted that the moment he opened his eyes.

Propped up against a shelf nearly hidden by a heap of random items (stolen trinkets that hadn’t been sorted yet, possibly) was the most hideous painting he’d ever laid eyes on, and that included the painting near the Hufflepuff dorm of a Satyr chasing five naked Crones. He was almost afraid to blink, but eventually his lids became heavy and he lowered them, though he raised them quickly when he thought he saw a twitch at the mouth of… of… well, he didn’t know what it was.

The face was entirely white except for splotches of crimson upon its bulbous nose and the mangled fleshy lips, and tufts of wild hair erupted on the sides of its head. Dramatic black eyebrows gave it an even more sinister look, not to mention the overcrowded, razor-sharp teeth filling its smile. Draco shuddered and quickly looked away. He could blast the wretched piece, but then he remembered Slaymaker’s parting words that the items in the store wouldn’t respond favourably to spells. Instead, he gingerly picked up the painting and turned it around so the horrid image was no longer in view. It didn’t exactly solve the problem, but it eased his worry that he might piss himself if he came across it again. 

Draco went to the counter and looked inside the antiquated till, noting a hundred Galleons, twenty Knuts and three Sickles. The ledger book lay open beside it, the last transaction listed as originating from Thirsk, North Yorkshire. There were no details of what item had been sold, other than the odd notation, ‘not for sitting’. Glancing briefly towards the eerie painting, Draco grabbed the ledger and moved towards the back of the shop. As he passed a case full of exotic oil lamps (probably _Djinn_ just waiting to be freed), he came to an abrupt halt when his eyes were caught by a movement: the garish brocade cloth covering a large item in the corner slithering to the floor and revealing the Vanishing Cabinet 

Draco slowly approached and studied the intricate scrollwork etched into the outer doors of the cabinet: Runes, Charms and Protection Spells. Back when he’d used the cabinet as a student at Hogwarts, he hadn’t fully comprehended the hieroglyphics, busy as he was being scared witless that he would fail the Dark Lord. Now, he understood that his Aunt Bella had manipulated the spell-work on the cabinet to gain what they’d wanted: entrance to Hogwarts. 

Draco thought about setting Fiendfyre on the hateful thing. Then he recalled the last time he’d set Fiendfyre free in a confined space, and pocketed his wand. His thoughts returned to the function of the cabinet. Could he use it somehow in his desperate bid for freedom? He tore off a page from the ledger, scribbled a note, placed it in the cabinet and closed the door. He waited ten minutes (far longer than necessary), and reopened the door... to see that the parchment had vanished. A tendril of satisfaction curled in his stomach and he hoped that someone, somewhere would find it.

* * *

Three days later, Draco despaired of ever leaving the accursed shop. 

The pub-keeper at the _Gannet_ had taken pity on him and left Yorkshire Puddings on his doorstep at the end of each day. They were stale, the beef gristly and the fat almost solidified, but they were edible. Barely. On his fourth day held captive by Borgin’s Bane (as he’d taken to calling it), he blinked back tears at the thought of subsisting on rancid puddings for the rest of his days. He was a Malfoy, however, so he swallowed what he could and did his best to clean his body and clothing with a powerful _Scourgify_ followed by the liberal use of _Tergeo_.

To keep himself busy, he began cataloguing the least threatening items he could find. The books were dismal, the ledger almost a complete fabrication and the inventory hadn’t been organised in decades. 

On the afternoon of the fifth day, Draco was counting the number of skulls (human and otherwise) that were actually on site—far more than the thirteen listed in the inventory. He sat upon a high stool, his bare toes wriggling against the bottom rung to keep warm. He’d tried to transfigure something from the shop into a serviceable pair of shoes, but he didn’t quite trust the results; anything around here might start eating his feet at the first chance. As it was, he cast _Tepescere_ as much as he dared, the silk of his pyjamas retaining little warmth. He thought about donning the fur coat he’d found hanging inside the Iron Maiden, but decided against it because the fox head was still attached to the neck line. He didn’t want to have his face gnawed off, after all. 

The ringing of the shop bell startled him into dropping the ledger. He didn’t move to pick it up, frozen as he listened to the sound of the front door closing and light footsteps. Quietly, he moved from behind the second largest glass hutch and peered into the dusty gloom at his visitor.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice called.

Draco didn’t know whether to laugh at what he saw or curse the witch who dared to enter his realm. On second thought, there were too many cursed objects around him; he didn’t need to be adding to the tally. Wait. His realm? When had he thought of this wretched establishment as ‘his realm’? He rubbed his temples to ease the exhaustion-induced headache. 

“Hello!”

He tried to blend with the shadows as he moved into the next room where the witch stood, arms crossed and toe tapping, clearly impatient, but the moment she turned to study something on a shelf, the light caught her hair and he burst out laughing. “What the hell is on your head, Granger?”

Hermione jumped and banged her head on a low-hanging light fixture. She scowled in Draco’s direction. “None of your business,” she sniffed. 

“You almost broke that antique monkey-hand chandelier. I’d say it’s my business.” Draco moved to stand behind the till. “What are you doing here?”

She blinked. “I got your note.” 

“My note?”

She withdrew the scrap of parchment he’d placed in the Vanishing Cabinet days ago. _“To whomever finds this,”_ she read, then shouted, _“GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”_

Her voice made his headache give an extra throb and Draco gave her a nasty look.

“What?” She showed him the parchment and pointed to his writing. “See? The entire sentence is capitalised, indicating distress and urgency.”

“I know what it indicates, Granger,” he snarled. “Where did you get—”

 _“I AM AT BORGIN & BURKES BEING HELD AGAINST MY WILL,”_ she continued, paying no attention to Draco. “See here, you’re shouting again. _Come quickly or I’m sure I’ll face an agonising death. Why are you still reading this, imbecile? COME GET ME NOW!”_ She folded the note and slid it across the counter toward Draco. “If you want someone to rescue you from certain agonising death, might I suggest you use a friendlier tone in the future?”

He arched a brow. “You’re here. What does that say about you?”

Her chin lifted a notch. “I’m an apprentice curse-breaker. I need the practice.”

Draco groaned and let his head fall back to hit the shelf behind him. “It figures. Not only do I get you, you’re also a novice. Can this day get any worse?” He quickly held up a finger to shush her. “That was a rhetorical question. In this shop, _everything_ gets worse.”

“Apparently.” Her brows drew together in confusion. “Why are you wearing pyjamas?”

“It’s ‘wear your sleepwear to work day’, didn’t you know?” he replied, unable to look at anything except for the ball of frizz atop her head. “Why do you look like you’ve been hit with a _Fulguri_ Jinx?”

“Again, none of your…” She thinned her lips. “Look, are we going to ask each other questions all day, or are you going to tell me why I found a note from _someone_ begging to be released from Borgin  & Burkes?”

“I don’t know, are we?” he retorted with a smirk, knowing it would rile her.

“How did you even get—”

A sudden childish giggle froze them both. Draco swallowed and scanned the shelves, cabinets and boxes for what might have caused the unnerving sound they’d just heard. Nothing seemed out of place.

“Malfoy,” Granger whispered. 

Draco shifted his attention back to her. She’d gone completely pale, her gaze riveted to the floor near the counter. He followed her line of vision and felt his knees threatening to buckle.

Just below one of the glass showcases sat a manky old doll, its wooden face pitted with pockmarks. It wore an off-white uniform with a blue anchor adorning the upper chest and a white hat, black glass eyes staring at them. Not even half a metre tall, yet it radiated Dark energy. _That_ was definitely not listed on the inventory! 

The doll gave another high-pitched giggle and slowly turned its head to focus on Granger, the high pitch gradually dropped into a lower register until it sounded like the Bloody Baron after he’d sampled too many spirits. 

Her eyes widened and her mouth grew slack. “Oh… oh my. That is just…”

“New?”

He could tell she wanted to close her eyes, but she didn’t. “I was going to say absolutely terrifying, but if it’s new to you, we’ll go with that.”

“It’s only new in that there’s no record of how or when it came to be here.” 

The doll swivelled its head and returned its gaze to Draco. “You’re going to die,” it sing-songed, then rose to its wobbly fabric feet. Draco and Hermione stepped backwards in unison, but the doll ignored them and made its way up the spiral staircase to the first floor.

“No wonder you want to get out of here,” Granger rasped.

Draco turned to her and said with false bravado, “Welcome to my life.”

* * *

Hermione listened patiently to everything Draco could tell her pertaining to how he’d arrived at Borgin & Burkes, from the insane crones that had been awaiting him to being restrained and having no recollection of what had transpired in the interim. What it boiled down to was that Draco was a hostage of this shop. She made him verify everything he’d told her about trying to escape. While she could leave and enter at will, Draco couldn’t even push the tip of his wand past the unseen barrier. She tried her hand at several spells that she’d already learned, but nothing would allow Draco to leave. Draco even went so far as to step into the Vanishing Cabinet, his thinking being that if the note hadn’t gone astray, neither would he. But the enchantments upon the shop, combined with the lengthy Will she had yet to read, amounted to an indescribable foreboding that Hermione couldn’t shake. She convinced him to hold off disappearing via the cabinet, though it took several reasons other than she’d had a ‘bad feeling’, namely the condition of the other cabinet.

Finally, as the evening shadows were creeping across the shop, Draco’s stomach growled rather loudly.

“Hungry?” Hermione asked, not unkindly. He must be starving for proper food (the _Gannet_ hardly qualified as such). Before he could utter a snarky comment, she headed for the door. “I’ll pop over to Diagon Alley and get something from the Leaky Cauldron and maybe something from Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop. I anticipate being here quite a while and I’d hex someone for some chocolate.”

Draco winced. “I wouldn’t say ‘hex’ too loudly in here. There might be…”

When his words faltered, Hermione followed his gaze. She tried to swallow several times, but nothing would go past the lump in her throat.

Next to the centre column of the spiral staircase, in the shadows, stood what looked like a clown doll, but unlike any that Hermione had ever seen. The face was white with red accents and frizzy tufts of hair puffed out on the sides of its head. The body looked like a plush teddy, the legs in red and blue, the arms in green and white. If it had been propped idly against a wall, she wouldn’t have thought much of it. But it was moving… and dragging what looked like a rusted meat hook. 

“That… that is _not_ natural.”

“Since when is anything in this place natural?” Draco replied with a snort. “Wait.” He moved behind the till counter, snagged the large picture facing the wall and turned it around. There was nothing within except black velvet. “Damn!” He moved to stand in front of Hermione, his wand drawn.

Though she was touched at the gesture, Hermione bristled at the suggestion that she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. “You don’t have to protect me, Malfoy.”

He tilted his head, not taking his eyes off the advancing clown. “The hell I do! You’re going to get me something to eat. If that thing kills you, I’ll be stuck here with your corpse and nothing to eat.”

“Nice to know I’d be missed,” she deadpanned. “You could always nibble on my dead body if you get desperate.”

The thing stopped moving and Draco dropped his wand hand. He turned and smirked at her. “I’d never be _that_ desperate.”

“Oh, you’re a right arse, Draco Malfoy!” she huffed.

He rolled his eyes. “Go on, I can handle—”

“You’re going to die!” the clown hissed, its voice like spiders in their ears. It let loose a maniacal laugh.

They looked at each other.

“You’re right, you stay and take care of Pennywise there. I’m off to the shops.” She gave him a bright smile and made for the door. 

“You’re, erm, you’re coming back, right, Granger?”

Hermione paused and looked over her shoulder. Did she imagine the tremor in his voice? She gave him a more genuine smile. “I promise.”

* * *

When Hermione returned an hour later the shop was oddly quiet. She cautiously scanned the area for any stray items that wished to attack, hex, curse, or issue dire prophecies. While she didn’t see Draco lying broken and battered, she did notice that the floor was littered with white tufts of stuffing and multi-coloured fabric.

“Malfoy?”

She heard a shuffling sound and he peered around the corner. She indicated the mess. “What happened?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It was hideous. I put it out of its misery.”

Hermione laughed and shook her head. “And ours.” She hefted a sack onto the counter. “Dinner! And clothes.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he gasped, obviously relieved. He pulled out several takeaway containers, then paused at a pair of green silk house slippers. “Where did you get these?” he whispered.

She twisted her fingers, unsure of her offering. “The London branch of Gladrags opened about a month ago, and I know it’s more of a consignment shop, but I saw these and they looked like they’d keep your feet warm, and—”

“These _are_ mine, Granger,” Draco murmured. He turned one over to show her the bottom where a faded ‘DM’ was written near the heel. “Mother often donated clothes that I’d outgrown to consignment shops.” He smiled to himself, then looked at her. “I can enlarge these so they fit better.”

“What are the odds?” she laughed, but her amusement died as his gaze remained on hers. 

“Indeed. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Tension seemed to have crept between them, and she didn’t know if it was a bad thing… or something else.

* * *

After they’d eaten, Hermione sat down at an ancient roll-top writing desk near one of the front windows. The surface had been cleared to make room for the mounds of parchment that the solicitor had left behind. The first thirty pages were full of _wherefore_ ’s and _whatnot_ ’s to the point of being completely incomprehensible. Looking at the closely-scrawled sheets, she didn’t blame Draco for tuning out the lengthy monologue. On the thirty-first page, the writing became so miniscule, she had to use a Magnification Charm to enlarge the letters. 

“Draco?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up… and up, and up. He was standing on a tall ladder that reached the first level, poised to hang a painting that reminded Hermione of Edvard Munch’s _The Scream_ , both subjects clearly in agony. She went to the bottom of the ladder. “What is that?”

Draco braced his legs on the topmost rung, the rest of his body equally rigid. “It’s called _The Anguished Man_. Not sure who the artist is, but they used their own blood as part of the paint,” he gritted out. “This and a couple of other things were in a wooden crate near the back entrance.”

The longer Hermione looked at the revolting painting, the more goose flesh pimpled the skin on her arms. She hoped that if Draco fell, he wouldn’t trip a chain reaction of booby-traps within the shop. God, what was wrong with her? Here she was, contemplating Malfoy’s demise, and all she could think about was magical backlash? She closed her eyes and shook her head, wondering at her frame of mind at a time like this. True, there was no love lost between her and Malfoy, but he _was_ a client of sorts, at least for the moment. And he hadn’t been overtly hostile, just irritable and snarky—his usual characteristics, amplified.

“A wooden crate?” she asked, idly watching the muscles in Malfoy’s backside flex with his every movement. “Was there a list with the contents?”

Draco blew out a frustrated sigh. “If there was, it’s gone now.” He glanced down at her. “Are you staring at my arse?”

She blinked rapidly and returned to her seat, cursing the blush that she could feel rising on her skin. “You’ve spent too long in this shop, Malfoy. You’re imagining things.”

“Hmm.”

She cleared her throat, flipped to the very last page (the writing looked like insect tracks at this point) and magnified the script. What she read made her blood run cold.

_The proprietor (hereafter known as Draco Lucius Malfoy) of the establishment known as Borgin and Burkes, listed at 13B Knockturn Alley, must remain within the confines of the property for a duration of four weeks. No deviation, codicil, cancellation or alteration may be made to this stipulation. Should proprietor find a loophole heretofore unknown at the time of this writing and depart the premises, proprietor’s soul will automatically be forfeit. However, if proprietor is found lacking in conviction, he may barter his soul to render his obligation null and void and transfer the establishment to a new owner. The new owner is not subject to this clause. Once such transfer is concluded, the previous proprietor will have an estimated lifespan of three years, depending on extenuating circumstances._

_In the event the proprietor Draco Malfoy survives the aforementioned four weeks, all debts will be considered paid in full, and proprietor is free to sell or retain said property without fear of retribution. Should Draco Malfoy expire while in situ, all rights, monies, and property will revert to Cecilia Borgin._

Hermione sat back and covered her mouth in shock. This had suddenly become more than a simple puzzle or curse to solve; this was about Draco’s life—no, his _soul_ —plain and simple. Given the fact that Draco had tried to leave earlier through the cabinet (and probably would’ve succeeded had she not stopped him), she knew that they’d narrowly averted disaster. 

“All right, Granger?”

She glanced up at Draco, who had a worried look on his face. “You can’t leave.”

“Well yeah, that’s the point, isn’t it?” He tsked and crossed the room to the till. “After studying those documents for hours, that’s the only thing you’ve learned? I think even Weaselbee would’ve found more than that.” He sat a dusty box upon the counter and blew off the cobwebs. 

“Don’t open that!”

Draco gave her an imperious look. “I wasn’t going to.” He leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms. “I happen to know how to handle most of the stuff in here, Granger. I was raised amongst a multitude of Dark objects. This, for example?” He pointed at the box. “It’s a Black Family heirloom. It’s made of onyx and mother of pearl inlay with a brass key for winding.” He turned the box around to show her the key and the hole it resided in. “Now, what do you think it does?”

“I’m not your apprentice, Draco,” she muttered as she got to her feet. Unable to help herself, she went closer to study the item, careful not to touch it. 

“No, but it’s clear you still have a lot to learn about curses and how they work.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve only been in training for six months.”

He snorted. “And I knew by the age of two that I could touch this box while someone like you would regret it immediately.”

She was even more curious about the box now, morbidly so. “Why? What does it do?”

“Should I turn the key?” he asked with a wicked grin. He moved his hand slowly to the brass key.

“No!” She caught his hand before it made contact. “No. Let me think.” She bit her lip and tried to think of why the Blacks would have something as mundane as… “It’s a music box!”

“Go on.”

She frowned. The Blacks were the least likely family to enjoy a good tune. So what was it for? What else required winding? Toys, clocks, watches. “It has to do with time, or the passage of time, right?”

Draco nodded. “Getting warmer.”

Time. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years… ticking away. She frowned. “It’s counting? Every time the spindles hit the ridges and create the notes, it’s like time ticking away.” 

“Yes,” Draco said. “But remember, we’re talking about the people that spawned my Aunt Bella—they learned curses with their mother’s milk.” He grimaced. “So no, it’s not just a pretty tune that keeps good time. The person that turns this key must continue to wind the music box for the entirety of their lives.”

“For Circe’s sake, why?” It would be a near impossible feat.

Draco shifted the box away from her. “Because, once the music starts, the person’s heartbeat attunes to the plucking of the spindles. If they stop, so does the person’s heartbeat.”

She couldn’t help her gasp. “Bloody hell.” At most, someone might last a week if they didn’t sleep… or go mad from the constant music. 

He nodded and removed the item, placing it under the counter. “Every curse has its nuances, its twists. Each is different, maybe even designed for one specific person and no one else would be affected.” Draco gazed at the shop around them. “There are a lot of unique items from history on these shelves. It’s a shame they were used to satisfy someone’s lust for revenge or power.”

His words captured her attention. “Very true. What are you thinking?” 

“I’m thinking a lot of people would pay a great deal to have their family treasures returned to them. Sans curse, of course.” He winked at her.

“Are you flirting with me amidst your dire situation, Malfoy?”

He barked a laugh. “I issue you a challenge and you take it as flirting. What does that say about _you_ , Granger?”

She looked away, flustered. “Sorry, I’m not really adept at—”

His fingers clasping hers stilled her words. “I was thinking you could help me.”

“Help you?” she managed. “Oh! Help you! Yes, I could do that. This would be the perfect test to practice my curse-breaking skills.”

“Merlin preserve us,” he groaned.

“Shut up. I got you slippers.” At his dubious look, she added, “I also figured out that you only have to stay cooped up in here for another twenty-five days before you can leave the premises.”

“Twenty-five days?” He dropped her hand and started towards the spiral staircase. “Maybe that manky doll will take pity on me and do as he promised.”

Hermione ran after him. “Not yet!”

* * *

Three weeks later, Draco was finally able to set foot out of Borgin & Burkes. The first thing he did was turn around and spell the sign over the door to read _Malfoy & Granger—For all your curse-breaking needs._

The second thing he did was escort Hermione to Twilfitt and Tattings and outfit them both in bespoke robes suitable for very important (and expensive) business owners. To this day, Hermione cannot take her eyes off of him when he wears the midnight blue robes.

Two years later, the shop sign had changed again: _Malfoy & Malfoy—Curse-breaking Experts._ They eventually became more famous than Bill Weasley, and that’s saying something.

And Draco still has his silk green slippers.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Cryptaknight's prompt:** Draco has taken over as the owner of Borgin and Burkes. He reluctantly  
>  needs Hermione's help with a particularly tricky cursed object.


End file.
